The Bureau Of Loopholes

Cleatus paced out of the office, contemplating his mission and planning a course of action. "Who'd know the man in charge of all this?" he asked himself, thinking about the reports he'd heard. After being forcefully removed from the Minister's lawn, many of the protestors had supposedly gone to the Leaky Cauldron to regroup. While he had no way of determining whether this information was just hearsay or not, it could not be ruled out as a lead.

And then there were the DMLE files, which listed every possibly relevant fact about any witch or wizard currently residing in Britain. He could look up all registered H.W.A.I.P.C. and question them individually. A tedious procedure, but sure to turn up results if he kept at it long enough.

A commotion in an adjacent hallway interrupted his train of thought. He turned, and watched in horrified fascination as a rangy, wiry man struggled against four uniformed DMLE officers. The man shouted Spanish obscenities, fighting with tooth and nail-literally.

Cleatus recovered from his initial shock and cast the first spell that came to mind: "Petrificus Totalus!" The stranger's screech was cut off abruptly as he stiffened and fell forward. Cleatus winced at the unnatural crunch of nose smashing against floor.

"Thanks, mate," puffed a wizard, leaning against a wall. "Thought he'd had us there. And you're . . . Mr. Southampton?" he guessed, frowning as he tried to place the face.

"Sullivan. Why were you bringing him in?" Cleatus surveyed the rather abashed quartet, all of them red in the face and sporting bruises and swellings. "And was it worth this?"

"He was inciting a riot," replied the sole woman. "Stirring up a bunch of teenage yahoos . . . good job we got him when we did, or else there'd be more than one to bring in." She dabbed at her split lip with a handkerchief. "Honestly, it's not our fault that the Hit Wizards handled the situation tactlessly!"

With new interest, Cleatus examined the miscreant. Unabashed hazel eyes flashed up at him. "So . . . I take it he's on the side of the H.W.A.I.P.C?"

"Yes, indeed. His name is Carlos Leone-he's a registered werewolf." The man directed a kick at the prone body, and received a muted, semi-feral growl from his victim. "Hey, wolf, d'you reckon you'd like a beating like you gave us?"

This 'Carlos Leone' was a potential source of information, then. Cleatus could not allow harm to befall him, if he wanted answers. "Let's not have any baiting. May I question him?"

The woman glanced down at Carlos, skittish, as though he might leap up and tear her throat out at any moment. "Can you handle him?"

"I think I can," Cleatus replied, trying to keep his voice neutral. He didn't want to sound too confident, lest Carlos decide he was a threat and not a benefactor. "Why don't you go and write him a warning?"

All four openly gaped. "After . . . after he assaulted officers like that . . . you just want to give him a warning?!"

Attempting a reasonable tone, Cleatus pulled Carlos's justification out of thin air. "I'm sure he saw it as self-defense. It's a first offense, isn't it?"

With a shrug, a wizard replied, "Dunno. It's his first offense on British territory; he's not native. I'd have to check with the Spanish DMLE to find out whether he's a repeat offender." He caught the patient, determined look in Cleatus' mild eyes, a look that said in quite simple terms that Mr. Sullivan would wait as long as it took, but in the end he'd get what he wanted. Unsettled, he continued awkwardly, "I . . . I should do that now, shouldn't I? Be seeing you . . . when I'm done?" He herded his partners away, and Cleatus was left alone with Carlos.

He knelt beside the werewolf and gently turned him over. As he'd suspected, Carlos's nose was broken. "I'm honestly sorry I had to do that. I'll take this spell off, and then I'll just ask you a few questions, all right?" Carlos blinked. Cleatus took that as an affirmative gesture.

The second the curse was off, Carlos leapt to his feet and shoved Cleatus against the wall. "Usted hijo de una perra!"

Two men made their way down Diagon Alley. They did not enter any of the shops, nor did they pause to examine the displays. Instead, they stopped at the most unassuming building on the street, the three-story, dingy structure sandwiched between Brookhaven's Book Haven and a secondhand garment shop. Words in gold leaf on the window stated that this was the Bureau of Loopholes' London office.

Peter unlocked the door, motioning for Remus to follow him in. "Doesn't look like much, does it?" he whispered, a faint grin touching his face. "Not like a famous place at all."

"Do they all look like this?"

"Just this one. Ms. Sheridan hates to look grand." He pocketed the key and made his way toward the stairs.

Remus peered around, taking in the shabby state of the foyer. Not a speck of dust anywhere, not a bit of clutter, but it all looked . . . old. Disused, almost. "She doesn't need to worry about that." The stairs creaked underfoot.

On the second floor, Peter once again took out the key and fitted it into another door, this one with a nameplate reading 'Peter K. Pettigrew, Co-director.' "I don't use this office a lot-it's easier to just mill around with everyone else-but I thought we might want some peace while we look for information."

This room was literally walled with filing cabinets. Each drawer was labeled in Peter's neat handwriting, though the labels were so obscure that surely Peter was the only one who knew what was where. A desk and chair occupied the center of the room, both painstakingly clean.

When Remus looked again at his friend, the other man seemed to have broken out in folders, with at least fourteen of them in his arms. Peter set the lot of them down on the table and examined the stack. "This should do." He gestured to his pile. "Take a folder, will you? Whichever you like." A little bewildered, Remus took the top folder and flipped it open.

He had chosen a folder containing the legal history of H.W.A.I.P.C.

Eyes fluttered across the words, automatically translating the official language into simpler phrases. We shall make no law abridging a wizard's right to destroy a werewolf if said werewolf constitutes a threat . . .. A vampire or his family may not immigrate to Great Britain . . .. Hereafter, any hag found with a child in her possession shall be assumed to have malicious intent . . .. And these laws had been functioning until 1933, when . . . The Board of Judges concludes that no action may be taken against humans with accidentally-inflicted preternatural conditions unless a certifiable offense has been committed by them; therefore, we repeal Sections 3, 12, and 14, as well as Acts 9, 34, 37, 61, and 50-57. Remus blinked, and looked up. He had thought he was living in prejudiced times . . . he'd taken for granted some of the freedoms he did have.

"Did you find something?" Peter asked, shutting his folder with a thump.

"I . . . I found a lot, but . . . not what we wanted." He once again bent over the papers. If there was a regulation that would legalize peaceful protest and congregation on the part of his people, it would be past this point.

Due to the outstanding death rate of its pupils, Winston Hall Werewolf Academy shall no longer enforce its 'red collar' policy . . .. "I've got it!" Lupin glanced over at Peter, who elaborated, "It's right here in the IAR! 'Citizens of the wizarding community retain the right to congregate in a wizarding locale with the explicit permission of the owner, and this right shall not be infringed.'" He put the folder away. "So that's legal matters sorted out. As H.W.A.I.P.C, you're classified as citizens of the wizarding community, and that means they can't evict you without violating the IAR-that's Inalienable Rights," he clarified.

While Peter filed his folders away, Remus glanced down at the papers he still held. "Do you know anything about Winston Hall Werewolf Academy?" he queried.

Peter pried the manila folder out of Remus' hands. "Not much. I think we went over it in History of Magic . . . it was the first all-werewolf school in the world. The students had to wear read collars from their first day on through the rest of their lives." He made an indignant noise. "It indicated a magically educated werewolf, and was supposed to be a warning to the community. It warned the community, all right-students were killed off right and left." With a metallic noise, the last drawer slammed shut. "Ready to head out? I don't have to stay here; I've got weekends off."

"All right."

They left the office, locking the door behind them. But they didn't get far. "Colleen's in," Peter remarked, noticing the light that escaped through the crack under her door. "I'll introduce you to her." He knocked politely, and then opened the door.

Colleen Sheridan was not at all what Remus had imagined. She looked to be about forty or fifty, with thick brown hair-going to grey in places-pulled into a loose bun, and sharp eyes. Her mouth, tugged down around the corners, hinted at a sour disposition, but the crow's-feet wrinkles at the corners of her eyes belied that impression. She rested her sharp chin on a bony hand, looked up at Peter, and winked. "Enjoying your work-free day?" Her harsh voice somehow resonated with good humor.

"Yes, Ma'am," Peter answered. "This is my friend, Remus Lupin." Colleen squinted at him, and he got the impression that she needed glasses. At last, she nodded.

"Good. What are you doing here? We're not open 'til nine, and you aren't working today." She sat back in the chair, crossing her arms.

Peter's smile was wan; he'd probably been caught at such antics before. "We were looking up some regulations for the H.W.A.I.P.C. They want to hold a benefit dinner, and they don't want a repeat of yesterday." At the mention of the tragedy-there was no other word for it-the frown hinted at by Colleen's dour mouth became visible.

"I don't want yesterday to repeat itself, either," she grated, cracking her knuckles. "I've been letting the Ministry walk all over me because I don't want to be shut down, but I will not let this keep happening. You can tell whoever's in charge that I will be donating both my money and my time to this cause. Publicly." Colleen leaned forward again, with a conspiratorial whisper and wink. "And the Ministry can kiss my rump if they don't like it."

"Estúpido policía!" A knife was very suddenly pressed to Cleatus' neck. He could feel it quivering in a hand that shook with anger. Speaking-just a slight movement of the throat-might well be fatal.

And, in a secret, forbidden place, Cleatus was absolutely thrilled.

Carlos must have sensed an unfamiliar quality in his victim's lack of reaction. He frowned, and exhaled a rush of meat-smelling breath. He turned the knife, running the flat of the blade down the officer's neck. A sliver of flesh was sliced away. Deliberation in every movement, Carlos pulled his weapon away and smiled with yellowed teeth. "Habla inglés?" Cleatus whispered.

"Si." The werewolf laughed. "What do you want, English?" he mocked. "Señor Sullivan."

"First, are you a member of the Humanity Movement?" The businesslike question didn't change Carlos's feral demeanor at all.

"I am. I came from Barcelona to protest. And?" His defiance of authority was a blatant challenge.

"And do you know your leader's name?"

Carlos touched the blood streaming from his nose-he had only just realized that it was broken. He held up his bloodied fingers as though they were marks of honor. "I do." He backed away, allowing Cleatus to straighten up.

A pause followed. "Well?" Cleatus prompted.

"Well what?" The meaningful look was met with a glare. "How stupid do you think I am, English? Do you think I would tell you, get him arrested? I am not so stupid as that." Carlos brushed at his nose again, smearing a bloody line across his right cheek, and then wiped his hand on Cleatus' shirt. "Have a good day, English." The werewolf turned to go.

"Wait!" Cleatus seized Carlos's shoulder. Annoyed, the Spaniard spun, and the knife was once again out and threatening.

"I will not tell you, English. Stop wasting your time."

"I can have you jailed."

"I can have you dead."

Both paused to consider. Cleatus knew not to push his luck, but he had to know who was in charge of the protest, and there was a certain . . . thrill to facing death. He had nothing to gain if he let Carlos go, and everything to lose. Furthermore, he was intrigued. Carlos, on the other hand, just wanted to get out of the place. Intimidation didn't work. And he truly didn't want to kill this man. But he was running out of both choices and patience.

Carlos broke the silence. "Why do you want to know?"

At last, a rational response! "Christine Fletchley would like to arrange a public apology."

Carlos scowled and pushed the hand off his shoulder. "She had better," he growled. "I suppose she does not care about the dead. I suppose she knows not one name. Does she apologize to the family of Angelo Garcia? Or the family of Logan Dane? And what about the people who joined the protest because they cared about their fellow men, the normal witches and wizards? How will she tell Zimmer Thyret's children that their father was killed by her men? Does she care that these fifty-two people died without names? No," he broke off, bitter and spiteful, but victorious, "No, she only cares that her good name is tarnished."

Cleatus drew himself up indignantly, defending his friend and superior officer. "Christine cares more than-"

"She does not!" Carlos struck Cleatus across the face and knocked him to the floor. "She does not care! Tell her that she can make her apologies to Lemuel Claret until the day she dies, but she will never care. Tell me, English, did she cry when she heard what had happened? Did she cry?" he crowed, kicking at the Englishman's chest. "Answer!"

"I do not know. Christine does not cry often." Cleatus clutched his ribs and made an attempt to stand.

"Stay down! And she will cry often." Carlos grinned, the triumphant look of one who whose thirst for vengeance would soon be quenched. "She will cry when it is her people who die. You will all cry." He laughed, laughed like one possessed, cackled and giggled until tears came to his eyes. And then he touched a finger to the liquid and wiped it on Cleatus' shirt. "Now you are stained in my blood and my tears." He glanced down at the officer, noticed the nick where his knife had sliced flesh. "And your blood as well."

With a sardonic salute, Carlos once again turned away. Cleatus didn't try to stop him. He had the information he wanted.

Once the werewolf was gone, Cleatus sighed and stood. "Well, that was odd," he remarked, making his way toward Christine's office to deliver his report. "Lemuel Claret. I've heard that name. The vampire bloke from . . . Japan?" he mused. "Not a Japanese name, though; perhaps I'm wrong."

Inside, he was reliving the tableau, relishing every harrowing moment. This was the kind of thing he had entered the DMLE to do! Threats of murder, violence, criminals . . . it was all such heady stuff. Nothing at all like his usual work, which took place behind a desk or amid files. This was what being alive was about-what was life without the danger of death? The blood, though . . . Carlos's comments about blood had unnerved him. "How much blood will be shed before this is over?"

He absently stroked the stinging cut.

Lucius Malfoy was perhaps not the most patient person in the world. He certainly wasn't the most humanitarian. But, by and large, he considered himself to be a good judge of people. Which led him to wonder how he'd ever perceived Severus Snape as a reasonable, levelheaded man. "You offered . . . you offered seven hundred and fifty galleons to a pack of werewolves?" he demanded.

Severus looked down. "Werewolves, vampires, and hags. Social outcasts, full of feelings of anger toward the Ministry. Perfect recruits," he muttered.

Lucius leaned over his desk, resting his forehead on the heel of his hand. He closed his eyes in defeat. "Fine. Werewolves, vampires, and hags. I've explained this before-I will not deal with those people."

"But I thought Lord Voldemort would be-"

"Be what?! Be pleased with you? Think you showed remarkable initiative?" Lucius brought his other hand up, cradling his head as though afraid it would break.

"No. I thought he would be interested. Our Lord is never pleased, and certainly not by initiative. He wants his servants to be just that-servile, dumbly loyal to him. What was the code we agreed on?" Severus asked, crossing his arms.

Lucius would have rolled his eyes, had they not been shut. "'Don't distinguish yourself, don't reveal our true identity, and don't fail the Dark Lord.'" That was the thing about being a Death Eater in these times: you had immeasurable chance for advancement, power beyond belief . . . provided you never put a toe out of line.

"Exactly. If all of us contributed-and most of the Death Eaters are from wealthy families; it should be no trouble at all-to pay Lemuel Claret his seven hundred and fifty galleons, and we brought the suggestion to our Lord as a group . . .." Severus trailed off, letting his comrade fill the blank space with whatever he wanted.

"Or we could suggest it to him, donate our money, and come out of this banquet empty-handed. Failure. It's too great a risk." Lucius stood from his office chair and began to pace the room. His forest-green carpet had a worn track down the center from years of this habit.

"Then we could go to the banquet first, and then pay Claret, and then tell Lord Voldemort that we have new recruits." Before the other man could point out the flaws in that plan, Severus had already discounted it. "No, the whole plot stinks of initiative. We'd be punished for not telling him before we began this . . . endeavor. What we really need," he decided, "is a scapegoat. Someone expendable, ambitious enough to have seized the chance, power-hungry enough to want to distinguish himself . . .." Snape considered the possibilities. "Macnair would fit that description."

"No. Macnair hates the H.W.A.I.P.C. He would never offer to help them." The peculiar venom in Lucius' voice spoke of shared hatred on such a personal level that it was almost ingrained in his soul.

"Avery, then. Smarmy man, always so eager to please . . .." Severus smirked. "And every time, he fails. Stupid. Avery doesn't know when to leave well enough alone."

Lucius paused in his pacing. "Avery. Yes, he's precisely the one we want." He sat again, but now his grey eyes practically crackled with possibilities.

"So I'll owl him tonight. And I would like for you to find out when this 'benefit dinner' is being held." Lucius clenched a fist, but did not comment. "Goodbye, Lucius Malfoy." Perhaps he had imagined it, but there seemed to be a derisive accent on the surname.

Most of the other Death Eaters had no idea why Lucius hated vampires with such horrible passion. Only Severus Snape, his protégé, ally, and sometime friend, knew the truth.

Only Severus Snape knew that Lucius' estranged father was a vampire.